


If You Insist

by toryaki



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, M/M, gratuitous use of backstory, insinuation of rape, will be nsfw shortly, writing from freshman year gomenasai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toryaki/pseuds/toryaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred F. Jones is a free-spirited professional food blogger. He travels the world (er... the country) in search of new and exciting meals. Arthur Kirkland is the master barista at a rundown seaside cafe near the coast of maine. Al runs across his shop and romance-novel shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What a Grump

Your name is Alfred F. Jones. You were born and raised in a world that would be considered far too difficult for any child of such a young age to be aware of, let alone involved in. Regardless of such a rough upbringing (that you’d prefer not to detail at the moment), you remain dashingly chipper, due mostly to the fact that you are the smallest bit of a numbskull, though you would never admit to that. You are followed, watched by people who know not of your story, only your skill. That skill, may one be curious enough to inquire, is eating.

As a matter of fact, you are indulging in this skill at the moment. You have found some kind of niche, as they say, in the world of the culinary arts. Not cooking, of course, only eating. You have found a place for yourself in the internet community of food-blogging, searching for the best places on the east coast to indulge in a culinary experience. You like to think that you are quite famous in this community, having so many people keep such a close watch on what you’re doing, having complete strangers so aptly interested in the minor goings on of your restaurant experience. These people have brought a certain satisfaction to you. You have fans--even something like friends in certain cases-- and they want to know exactly what Alfred F. Jones had for lunch today.

You observe the small restaurant you are sitting in. There are sports jerseys in cases on the walls, blaring white numbers into the murky brown light that seems to emanate from the walls of the place. Pictures of local sports teams are slapped up on display as though they came with the awful artificial wooden wall laminations. This place is almost identical to many you have entered before, right down to the football game on the television and the muted country music being forced through speakers in hidden corners of the restaurant. To you, places like this feel the closest to a home you have ever had. However, as you finish your burger and see a waitress approaching, popping her gum, something feels off. You smile and thank her and leave cash, as well as your standard business card explaining that you have blogged the meal. You do your job and exit the place, feeling the slightest bit discombobulated.

The salty air bites your face as the door closes behind you in a jingle of bells. There is mist in the air that feels like needles pricking at your fingers and nose. You tilt your face upward, looking into the silvery sky. That is the one thing about your job that you don’t particularly love; the weather. Growing up in the middle of the US was not by any means a way of preparing you for the smoggy heat of summer and the icy urban chill of winter that resides on the east coast. However, you are a firm believer in the philosophy of doing what you love, as they say, in rain or shine. You must also continue to work, even feeling the way you do. It is for this reason that you tighten your jacket’s fur collar around your neck and trudge on through the icy sheets of moisture.

Although you are full of food, your stomach feels like the inside of a cavern. You are hollow and you do not care to think about why. As you walk, you search for a place to hide from the mist, some sort of cafe. The thought crosses your mind that you could go to another restaurant, because you are Alfred F. Jones, and you are always, always, always hungry. This makes you smile widely enough that you get mist in your mouth, making you cough sideways into your jacket. Only a few measly blocks from the last place, you discover another possible find as your eyes drift upward.

This one is a small cafe, maybe holding two tables and a bar, at best. It is just a mile or so out from the ports, if you recall correctly, so it has a sort of washed out, coastal appearance. It looks almost like the place sprouted directly out of the dock and washed up on shore. You quirk your head to the side, thinking how this place might not be a bad one to check out. Going down your mental list of facts, you search nonchalantly for a sign on the door or the roof or the windows that are perched in the place. Nothing. Well it wouldn’t be the first time you came across a place without signs. A lot of local ones didn’t think it so important to announce their existence. I’ll simply ask, you find yourself thinking. At this point your hand is on the doorknob, and you are staring through the small glass panel set in the door just below your eye level. You nod, take a deep breath, and put on your signature one-sided smile of relaxed professionalism as you firmly turn the handle and step through the doorway.

 

Your name is Arthur Kirkland, and you absolutely, positively loathe your job. You have lived in this dumpy little town for seven years, and despite the comfortingly familiar weather, it is what you would classify as a ghost town. The place has a total population that you could count and list by name. The only business you get on a consistent basis are an old woman who used to arrive with her husband and a fisherman bloke who appears to be the slightest bit mad. Your only coworker is bloody irritating. Your boss doesn’t show up anymore and yet you find yourself attached to coming to this dump of a restaurant every single morning of your small, pitiful life.

It’s quite pathetic, actually. Most of the people here are only here because they have never been anywhere else, and they are too afraid to leave. Most of them have families or spouses. Even the old woman that comes every day at three has a cat, you think. And what have you got? Your face crinkles in frustration as you stubbornly realize that what you have is absolutely nothing but a shack of an apartment and a knack for making tea. You find that despite the sad truth it is that this cheers you slightly, and think about making yourself some although it is thoroughly unprofessional.

You have always had a soft spot for tea. Being from Great Britain, where tea is as common or possibly more common than water, it is only natural that this be a comfort to you. Back across the pond, when life got difficult, you drank tea. Due to that fact, your thermos of earl grey became practically an extension of your arm. For life was often difficult, and you were young and very often unable to fix much of anything. In that case you drank tea.

And so you do now. Forget professionalism, there won’t be any customers today anyway. You stare out the window and into the pearly sky of the great state of Maine, think of how far that sky stretches, over the sea and other countries. We are all connected through the sky, you think as you sip your steaming cup of earl grey. Your shockingly green eyes narrow at a point where you see a seagull flitting around, picking up litter and dropping it in search for treasure. Your life is a lot like that seagull’s, you think. You spend so much time in the same place looking at the same rubbish, hoping and hoping that you will find something worthwhile. You dump the rest of your tea down the sink and decide to leave Francis in charge for the rest of the day when the front door of the cafe jingles as a young man in a bomber flight jacket hops through.

The first thing you notice about this young man is that you have never seen him before. This comes as a surprise to you, considering you’ve worked in this dinky cafe for a grand total of 6 hellish years. The only business you tend to get are old hobbly fisherman and elderly couples. That is the other main reason for your shock; this man is young and eager. He looks like he was just hatched into the world yesterday, no older than eighteen, if that, with bright eyes and a smile that you suddenly would like to smack off of his face.

You cannot go home and leave the only customer to Francis. He is what you’ve heard referred to as a ‘flaming homosexual’, but you do not consider that a very fair label, as you generally find labels to be bothersome and unnecessary. What really concerns you is that your coworker is a relentless flirt, and you can already see the man twirling his tied back hair out of the corner of your eye. You decide it is high time that somebody actually did their job around this place and welcome the new customer with a forced smile.

“Hello. How may I help you today?” You let the words slip out of your mouth with an unnecessary cutting tone. This stupid boy made you stay at work, and although you had to do your job, you surely did not have to be genuine about it. He makes his way over to the counter in a full two bounds, which would be much more impressive if the place wasn’t so tiny. He shoves his hand in your face, assuming you’d like to shake it. You take his wrist with your thumb and forefinger, setting his hand down on the counter, as he introduces himself.

“Hi there! My name is Alfred Jones.” He beams brightly enough to tan your face. Cute, you think. But still, he was keeping you at work.

“How fantastic for you, you know your name.” You sneer. “Now if you wouldn’t mind telling me what you’d like to order so that I can get out of here, that would be bloody splendid.” You rap the fingers of your left hand on the counter next to a notepad, usually used for waiting tables. There would be no need for it, of course; this was the only customer in the entire restaurant, and he seemed nauseatingly friendly. His mood doesn’t look the slightest bit dampened by your attitude as his gaze focuses on the menu above your head.

“Oh yeah! Hmm,” he pauses and runs a hand through his sandy hair. This kid is really cute, you find yourself thinking. You stop the thought as soon as it hits but it’s too late now, and your face has broken into a full on cherry flush. “I have never really been here before, so,” He looks at you again. “Surprise me.” For half a second you’re dumbfounded, unsure of exactly what he is asking, and wow his eyes are blue. Then you are back and want to simultaneously slap yourself and this stupid young man for keeping you here.

“If you’re that bloody willing to put your choices in some stranger’s hands then I worry about your future, numbskull,” you fume as you turn on the stove again and begin taking out ingredients. You whip back around to face the counter, your eyes boring into the washed out, raw surface of the bar. “Your total comes to $5.39, and your order will be ready in the next ten minutes.” He spurts out a cheery thanks and slides a $10 bill over the counter.

“Keep the change,” he says. You respond with a snort that would make any domestic farm animal proud. You slide the money into the cash register and begin preparing the fish you have ordered for this idiot. You expect him to have picked up a newspaper or otherwise occupied himself, but apparently his two brain cells do not know when to bugger off. “So listen, like I was saying, I ain’t exactly from around here,” You snort again, this time nearly dropping the fish on the floor. “And I was just wondering, what is this place called?” He inquires with the ghost of a southern -maybe midwestern, you really couldn’t tell or care less- drawl.

“What do you mean ‘this place’? You’d think that even someone as dense as yourself would know what town you’re in.” You roll your eyes, shocked at how unintelligent this kid was proving to be. You aren’t the best judge of character, but you think you were spot on with this one.

“As a matter of fact, I do know what town I am in. I was actually referring to this particular restaurant. You know, the one you happen to work at.” His tone remained as sunny as the middle of Texas in July and his smile only wavered when he broke eye contact. He was insufferable and adorable and he was pissing you off. You opened your mouth, about to go on a tirade, when you noticed Francis’ warning stare from the other end of the bar. He sat watching the two of you with a glass of wine, quirking his eyebrows every so often, and now he was telling you silently, careful, mon ami. You swallow rage and smash together a plate for the bastard across the bar. You slam down his plate with silverware and pour his tea in front of him. The meal you couldn’t care less about, but you work the tea as if you are a chemist handling precious compounds. The room is silent, save the small clinking sounds of the now eating customer.

“You said your name was Alfred, am I correct?” You are speaking through your teeth. Your arms are crossed over your chest, keeping your hands pressed tightly to avoid any sudden violent outbursts. How one person had the power to enrage you so quickly was unknown to you and apparently occurring to your coworker’s pleasure. The man still leaned against the window, with the smug look of ‘i told you so’ practically radiating outwards from him in waves. Damn frog.

The boy merely nodded in response, busied with his meal. “So I am going to presume that you are not from this, for lack of a better word, town, and that you chose to come here on your own accord. By this piece of information I can also presume that you are not the most intelligent creature ever to walk the earth.” You roll your eyes as he drops his silverware, looking at you with a face full of food. You see him swallow and prepare to speak. He is still smiling for some unfathomable reason. You begin to wonder if he has some kind of serious mental disability.

“I’m here doing my job, actually. I’m a restaurant critic and I’ve been looking for good places to share with my many fans. Your place itself is actually pretty damn charming,” He beams even brighter as he says this and continues on. “The food is alright. Pretty sure it was still swimming yesterday. This tea though,” he pauses, tapping the counter next to the cup. “You gotta understand here, I’m not a tea guy, but this tea is absolutely fantastic.” He looks you straight in the face, his grin morphing into a smirk. “The service, however technically sound, is a little bit less than welcoming, though, ah,” he pauses and to squint at your name badge. “Arthur.” His eyes glitter and you hate him. You hate Alfred the food critic with his blue eyes and sandy hair and charming smile. You hate him and he doesn’t seem to notice, though you doubt he would care if he did. You hate his compliments and his posture and everything about him.

“Well around here, Alfred,” you say his name like a curse word. “We get paid for getting work done, not for kissing arse. Now if you don’t mind, I will take your mess and you can scoot your high-class food-critic tush out of my establishment.” You pick up his plate and toss it into the sink behind you. “Loitering is illegal.” You are now looking him square in the face, bracing yourself against the counter. He is no more than a foot away from you, and you can smell the earthiness of his jacket. He looks at you mischievously.

“Alright, alright.” He scoots back his chair, folding his hands on his lap. “However, you never did tell me what this place was called.” He quirks an eyebrow. Does he ever stop smiling?

“It has no name, you bloody git.” You spit the words at him like venom, still leaning over the counter. You can no longer tell if you have the willpower not to physically kick this kid out of the store. What is he getting at, anyway? He’s probably just screwing with you, lying about being a food critic at all. Tomorrow he’ll be a health inspector somewhere else to get discounted meals, you bet.

“In that case, Arthur,” he leans forward opposite you over the counter. His face is now only inches from your own, and you can’t remember how to move. He is so close that you can only see his eyes through a pair of rectangular spectacles and the bridge of his nose. His breath smells like fish and cinnamon herbal tea. You notice that he is tanned and that the color of his hair is only a shade darker than his skin. He smells like earth, not just his jacket, but also his entire being as well, you realize. You also realize that your mouth is actually watering. Your face turns even redder, due to combined rage and embarrassment at being so close. “You will just have to contact me.” You are stunned into silence and you tense as he slips a card into the pocket of your shirt, grazing your chest under the strap of your work apron. He hops back so fast that you feel the wind. His smell disappears as you see him bound towards the door. “You know, in case you need some publicity or, uhm,” he looks at you and he genuinely, truly winks. “Anything.” He leaves in a swirl of wind and you are still stunned as the door jingles closed.

You don’t move until you hear the notes of loud, obnoxious laughter and clapping from the corner of the room. You see that Francis has finished his wine and is now applauding and laughing to the point of tears. You scrunch your face up in anger as you stare down at the frenchman.

“And what are you laughing at?” You are nearly shouting. “You look like a mentally disabled seal for christ’s sake! Get yourself together, you filthy frog!” You sneer at him, still flushed from embarrassment. 

“Oh, mon ami! Ah,” he is gasping for breath, bracing himself on the counter.“You  
‘ave gotten yourself a case of ze new boy,” he is wiping tears from his eyes, now sitting on the floor, and holding back giggles.

“What the hell are you going on about?” You are about to go on a rampage when you realize you actually don’t care what Francis thinks. He is a drunk who has as much purpose in life as you, which according to your calculations is exactly none. You rip off your apron and punch out, grabbing your suitcase. (Yes, you bring a suitcase to work at a cafe, and there is nothing wrong with that.) “You’re wrong and I’m not going to stay here and defend myself because you are a drunken bastard who has never done anything good for me or himself.” He stops laughing. The last thing you hear before the door slams closed behind you is the sound of garbled French, likely expletives. You roll your eyes, hoping the frog can at least find his land legs long enough to make it home.

You can’t help thinking as you begin the short trek back to your house in the icy rain. You wish that kid had never come through the door, had never planted his cute arse on--wait, what? No, not cute, bloody stupid is what he was. You shake your head, angry at your silly desires. But still, all you can smell is cinnamon and earth, and when you close your eyes, the thing that comes instead of darkness is blue. You approach your ramshackle flat and enter half-heartedly, entirely distracted by the memory of an idiot kid.

You drop your suitcase and jacket, throw off your shoes. You put the kettle on to boil and turn on the hot water of the little shower in your dinky bathroom. You drop your work clothes on the floor and bathe. Suddenly the air is heavy with steam and everything smells like cinnamon and earth and you cannot stand it. You shut off the water, wrapping yourself in a robe and returning the few feet to the kitchen. The kettle is screaming and you take it off of the heat. You are trying to focus so intensely on nothing that your brain will not be able to remember the day’s events. You think that tea will help, as tea always helps. You lightly sip it, and your eyes open wide as you realize you have made yourself a cup of cinnamon tea. “Bloody hell!” You shout as you slam the cup down on the counter, dumping tea all over the place. “Fucking Christ!” You slink to the floor and let out a string of expletives that would make any priest shake his head in shame for humanity. You don’t give a fuck, and you say so, loudly.

You can’t tell if you are sitting there for 5 minutes or an hour or a day but when you finally bring yourself out of the fetal position the tea has evaporated and now your entire house actually does smell like cinnamon. You heave a sigh, stretching back to your feet. You walk down the meter long hallway, picking up your work clothes from the bathroom on your way to the only bedroom in the place. You drop them on the floor of your room, keeping in your hands only the light blue shirt that made up the most important part of the ‘uniform’. You plop down on your mattress, feeling lightly in the shirt pocket for what you suppose must be some kind of business card. What you find instead is a small index card, much like a business card, but with a simple paragraph of text on it. It explains that Alfred is a food critic, and that he blogged about his meal. 

“That self absorbed bastard.” You say aloud. You flip it over, and you are a little bit shocked at what you find. It is a scrawled ten-digit number in blue pen, with a name above it that reads ‘Bloody Git (Alfred)’. You can’t help the small bubbling feeling inside your stomach, and a ghost smile creeps across your face. Then it hits you like a semi-truck when you remember that you, Arthur Kirkland, do not have a phone, cellular or otherwise, in your possession. “Damn,” you whisper under your breath. You throw your shirt across the room and gently set the card on the shelf beside your bed. You shut off the light and crawl under your blankets, still smelling the cinnamon tea that you spilled earlier.

But you smell something else in it too, something green and fresh, like rain. You stare wistfully at the card through the darkness and sigh into your bedding. Despite his stupidity, you have to admit that Alfred was the slightest bit adorable. And he smelled really, really good. And even though you are pissed off at him, and he ruined your day, he gave you his phone number. So despite the fact that you absolutely cannot stand his existence, you cannot help but wonder where exactly he might be right then. You also find yourself wondering if he is just as heart-wrenchingly lonely, and it is with that thought that you find yourself drifting into unconsciousness.

You do not remember much of your day before having entered the small, nameless cafe earlier. If you’re being one hundred percent honest, you don’t care to. You only remember the hollow feeling that preceded the cafe. That spare half hour in that little shack of a restaurant suddenly made your life exceedingly better. He was such an asshole and the food was so fresh. That guy with the ponytail just sat around drinking his wine and making faces, watching everything unfold around him. The way his hands moved, and you noticed, freckles... he had freckles on his hands. He made the tea like he was crafting a delicate piece of lace made from spider’s silk. 

His eyes were green and he smelled like soap and warmth and a whole bunch of other wonderful things. He wasn’t too great of a cook but you’ve had worse, by far. And the whole place... it was like he could have lived there, he looked so at home and he knew it like the back of his hand. He was so graceful, even in anger, in rage, he moved like a magician. He was so sure of what he was doing, it was unbearable. You found yourself smiling like an idiot, despite his many jabs at you. So when you gave him your phone number, you have to say you were more than a little bit pleased at his reaction. It looked like he just saw an opera take place on the counter in front of him. He couldn’t be more than 5 foot something, and with that expression on his face, he was undeniably cute. His freckles stood out darkly against his face, flushed with rage. And you cannot stop thinking about him.

His voice echoes in your head as you make your way to a local inn. You say your polite hellos and thank you’s as usual. You practically run up the stairs to your room and flop down on the bed, fully clothed, shoes still on. You fish your phone out of the pocket of your jacket and toss it down next to you on the table, chucking your shoes and jacket and shirt and pants off the edge of the bed. You yank a shirt with an american flag on it and your laptop off of the floor, pulling on the tee and starting up your computer. You breeze through your usual blogging routine, this time putting a little bit more thought into the review of the restaurant with no name. “There was nothing inherently special or different about this place. It was just what you’d expect to see out near the port of a small fishing town. However, this place brought a lot of personality to the table, both in its appearance and through its wait staff. Yeah, especially the staff. There was one man who made the absolute best cup of tea I have ever had, and let me tell you, I’ve had a lot of tea.” You cringe a little to yourself. You have had more tea than you would ever care to have in three lifetimes, but for the purpose of your profession, you tend to grin and bear it. And he made it much more than bearable. “Anyway, there was one very peculiar thing about this place. It was a restaurant with no name. I have come across many a place with no signs, no menus, no tables, no chairs. Even once no living employees (yikes)! But today was the very first time I have eaten at a joint without a name. And let me tell you, it will not be the last time, either.” You finish blogging and upload the picture you took of your meal when Arthur’s back was turned. The other worker with the wine saw you and shrugged, so you figure it’s probably fine. You close down your computer and hop up off the bed. You walk over to the small balcony and look out over the port from your place leaning on the railing. 

You know it will be at least another few hours until you will be able to actually slip into sleep. Until then you will just stay at your perch in this fine local inn, thinking. Somehow the only thoughts that manage to drift into your mind involve freckles and the color green and hands. You think that, quite possibly, if given a certain amount of persuasion, you could very well grow to like tea.


	2. We're Going on a Date?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur totally scores and gets a date with the hot new regular.

“This is absolutely absurd!” You shout as you drop the coffee pot with a clang into the kitchen sink. You have only been at work a few hours, and in that few hours there has been little to do and far too much time to think. “It’s already pushing afternoon lunch and we haven’t even gotten the bloody regulars!” You whip around to look at your coworker, who at this moment happens to be sitting with his feet propped up on one of the tables of the restaurant. He looks over at you and begins talking before you can rage about his feet on the table.

“You are a bit ‘ighstrung today, if I may say so.” He tilts his head at you, quirking an eyebrow. “It is not ze first time we ‘ave ‘ad no customers in a day.” He takes his feet off of the table and leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “I think you’ve got something on your mind, mon ami.” He rests his head on his hands and looks at you mischievously, clearly trying to imply something.

“First of all,” you sneer, “Stop calling me that. It’s outright irritating.” You pick up the rag next to the sink and walk over to the table where he is sitting, cleaning the spot where his boots were resting moments ago. “Second of all, keep your filthy feet off of the tables.” You shoot daggers at him, glaring, your nostrils flared. “And lastly, keep your prodding nose out of my bloody business.” He lets out a short laugh, folding his hands in his lap. “It is none of your concern what may or may not be distracting me at any given moment, frog.”

“Oh but it is, sir Arthur!” He lets out a roll of laughter that makes you shake with rage. “You see, anyone that can ‘old your ‘eart in a time so small ‘as not only my respect, but also my interest.” You are too angry to make your mouth do anything but make incoherent shouting noises, so you choose to keep it shut. He has no idea what he is talking about and quite frankly you are getting entirely sick of his existence. “Do not deny it! I saw ze look on your face!” He laughs again, and all you can manage is to stomp back behind the counter and finish doing the dishes.

“Sod off, you bloody idiot,” you finally shove the words through your teeth as you scrub violently at a plate. He lets out a final note of a chuckle before beginning to hum a song that is only familiar to you through him. He is so bloody annoying and it is almost enough to distract you from your thoughts. Almost.

Through your rage, you cannot help but wonder if Francis is right. It could very well be that what he is saying is true, although you wouldn’t admit it. You simply have to acknowledge the fact that very few things have been occupying your mind the past 24 hours, and they all seem to stem from one particular subject. You find yourself seeing blue instead of black when you close your eyes, and rectangular spectacles. You find that you long for a certain scent of rain and dust and cinnamon all wrapped up in warmth. You find that even as you smack and rub at the dishes in front of you, there is an uncertain sort of feeling that has been sitting in your gut, even through the anger. You find that you miss a certain permanent smile that lights up a room. You start to realize that you long for this person that you barely know, and that barely knows you. However, there is something small, a spark of hope in your chest, telling you that maybe the both of you would like to change that.

It is at this point that you realize there are now three people in the cafe. You suppose you did not hear the customer enter, due in part to the ruckus you were making and also due to the fact that you were entirely distracted. Nonetheless, there are now three of you in the restaurant, and you mindlessly grab the notepad from beside you on the sink, focused intently on it with the pencil hovering above the paper in your hands. It’s about time somebody came in, after all.

“Hello. What may I get for you today?” You give the usual greeting in a flat tone, not even bothering to look up from your notepad.

“That’s a very good question,” a confident, mocking voice sends the words into the air between you. You can hear the smile in his voice as you look up at him, shocked. “I suppose I’d like the best thing you’ve got and a cup of tea.” He smiles at you and does that silly wink and all you can do is stare. You start to come to your senses as you notice Francis nearly choking on laughter in the back corner of the restaurant. You glare at Alfred across the counter.

“Very well. Your total will come to $6.39 and your order will be up momentarily.” You slam the notepad and pencil down on the bar, enraged and embarrassed. He drops another ten dollar bill with a smile on the counter and you take it, not returning any change. Why the hell would this man come back to your work? Didn’t he have a job to do? You whip up a small plate of eggs and scones and carry them over, dropping them in front of the man. You serve a cup of cinnamon tea, treating it like a ritual, mindlessly spinning things together like it is second nature. You feel his eyes on your hands and see him leaning in slightly. Your face burns as you shove the cup across the counter towards him. You retreat as far back from him as you can manage as he begins shoveling his meal down. You have your arms in straightjacket position, trying to focus on breathing in and out.

“Well I gotta say, you’re pretty quiet today.” The young man smiles and regards you with genuine interest. His blue eyes bore into you like lasers, but you return his gaze with angered determination. This bastard had no idea who he was dealing with. You open your mouth in preparation to go on a tirade, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“Why are you here?” You inquire, rage and shock still prominent on your face. You can feel the heat in your cheeks and neck and ears and you try to straighten your back in an attempt at some form of dignity. He sets down his fork, looking at you as if you just asked him what two and two equals. 

“You know,” he is still smiling and it is driving you insane. “I thought you were pretty damn smart but when you start askin’ me that kinda stuff, I just wonder if I’m not a terrible judge of character.” He gestures grandly to the plate in front of him. “I’m here for breakfast.” Your gaze follows his hands as he picks up the mug and takes a sip. “And some kick ass tea.” He winks at you again and you start to think that he is getting way out of hand.

Your face screws up into the nastiest glare you can manage. If looks could kill, you think. “I think now might be a good time to tell you that I don’t have a phone,” you spit at him. You cannot stand him.

His smile wavers for a moment, revealing the saddest face you’ve ever seen. Your heart squeezes as you realize that this man is still so young and although you loathe him, you do not want to see him in pain of any kind. His puppy dog eyes fade and his expression brightens again, almost sunnier than before, and you wonder if that hurts his face. 

“What a shame,” he chuckles. “I guess I will just have to come by more often then, won’t I?” He looks you square in the face and starts to laugh. You want to hit that expression off of his face. However, something bubbles up inside your chest at the sound of his laughter that you can’t help but savor. You loathe him and you want to kick him out. But this man, this kid, came back. He plans to do more of it in the future, and he gave you his phone number. You want to see him happy. As you watch his giggles start to die out, you realize that you may want to get yourself a cell phone.

“You are the stupidest, most insufferable fucking idiot I have ever met.” You can’t help but smile a little as you throw the insult, shaking your head. You are not surprised to see that this only makes him smile brighter.

“That’s my Arthur!” he shouts and starts to laugh even louder. You roll your eyes as he sips at his tea again. You decide that maybe tea doesn’t sound half bad, and begin to prepare yourself a cup. “Isn’t that a little unprofessional?” He asks you and quirks a blond eyebrow, tipping his head towards the mug on the bar in front of you.

“I practically run this place, I don’t think anybody would really mind if I made myself a cup of tea.” You speak while you work, putting together your own personal blend of cinnamon and mint and something else. You notice Alfred’s eyes intent on your hands as you swirl together different herbs. You press your lips tight, suppressing a smile as you realize how thoroughly entranced he is in what you’re doing. “Besides, you don’t care,” you tilt your head up, meeting eyes with the man in the corner of the restaurant, who has, unsurprisingly, acquired a glass of wine himself. “Do you Francis?”

“Not in ze least, mon ami,” he grins as he holds up his glass in front of him. You tilt your cup forward as well, rolling your eyes at the drunkard’s silliness. You gaze back at Alfred, whose own eyes have shifted from your hands to your face. He is just staring at you, looking back and forth over you, searching for something. You hold his gaze, face burning, trying to hide behind your cup of tea. Your palms sweat as you set the cup down next to you on the counter, staring at it. He speaks suddenly, as if the words had been trying to escape from his mouth and had finally found freedom.

“Would you like to go somewhere with me?” He looks at you, his usual beam of a smile now just a small curve in his lips. He looks genuine and you can tell that there is only one answer to this question. You look hopelessly down at the young man sitting at the bar, searching his face for any sign of dishonesty. You cannot find a single trace of it, so you heave a sigh and respond, rolling your eyes.

“Only if you insist,” you say, flinging out your hand in a dramatic gesture. His beam returns, and you’ll be damned if that doesn’t actually hurt his face. He hops up, setting down his now empty cup of tea. You forgot how tall he was, looking down at him sitting at the bar. He is now looking down at you, and he is at least a head taller. You drop your hands on the counter in front of you, face scrunching in frustration at the shameful height difference. Your eyes pop open as he grabs your hands in his suddenly.

“I’ll be back here around six, alright?” He looks at you and you swear his eyes get more blue everytime you look at them. His hands are warm and rough and steady holding yours, and you can feel him like the sun. You smell earth and cinnamon and you just barely remember how speaking works long enough to let out a small ‘alright’, as he drops your hands and bounds towards the door. “See ya, Francis!” he waves a goodbye to your coworker on his way out.

“So long, Alfred!” Your coworker has only made it through half of his wine, but is already laughing like he’s had four glasses. You don’t even have the anger to rage at him as the door jingles closed behind the man. You simply look over to Francis, and he gives you a quizzical look, shooting one light eyebrow upwards. All you can do is nod your head at him, dumbfounded. He starts laughing even louder now, and you lean back against the bar, smiling into your tea.

Your name is Arthur Kirkland, and you believe that you may have just scored yourself a date with a certain Mr. Alfred Jones.


	3. We're Going on a Date.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as first dates go, this was nothing special. It felt that way, though.

That day, you learn several very important things about Arthur Kirkland. The first is that he only says what he assumes cannot hurt him, and you suspect that is for good reason. The second is that he is a pretty decent kisser. The last is that he is not, for himself or other parties involved, a pleasant shopping partner.

“Oh bloody hell, Alfred!” You hear him exclaim from behind you in his deep raspy tone. “We’ve been here for 3 hours already. Could you possibly maybe stop being so indecisive and just pick one already?” You regard his anger with patience, and you’ll admit the smallest bit of amusement, as you prepare to plead your case. You put on a mock serious face, turning your shoulders away from the postcard stand, making sure that you meet Arthur’s gaze. You pluck one of the cards out of its holder without looking at it, showing it to him as you speak.

“This is very, very serious business, Art.” You move the piece of paper up and down with your words for emphasis. He glares at you but doesn’t reply, so you continue in the feigned seriousness for as long as you can manage. “One does not simply pick just any postcard to send to the person who practically raised them. That is not how it works.” You close your eyes and shake your head shamefully, pausing for a dramatic effect. “I’ve gotta put my heart and soul into choosing this thing, otherwise it won’t be worth the seventy-nine cent photo paper it’s printed on.” Arthur chooses this time to stick his tongue out at you like a five year old, and you start to bust out laughing. He snatches the card out of your hand and returns it to the appropriate slot in the rotating rack, plucking out a random card with a picture of the sunset over a major port, with the words “Thinking of You from Maine” scrawled across the bottom right hand corner in blue, cursive type. He turns back to your still laughing figure, and watches you intently, waiting for you to calm yourself enough to be able to hold currently unpurchased merchandise.

“Each bloody picture is as cliche as the next,” he says, holding out the card for you to take it. Instead you step in about a foot and a half closer to him, standing shoulder to shoulder and inspecting the card still in his hand. You hear him let out a small huff of frustration, and can’t help but smile just a little bit. He is so easily flustered, and you absolutely cannot deny that you find it adorable. After a few moments of looking at the card, tilting your head side to side and letting out a few ‘hmm’s and one ‘i see’, you grab the card from his hand, grazing his fingers and causing him to snap back in surprise, shoving his hands in his pants pockets. You suppress another smile as you hold the card out in at arms length, squinting.

“Yes,” you finally say. “I suppose this will do.” You see him roll his eyes and turn on his heel towards the checkout counter, visibly relieved although still pretty grumpy. 

“A bloody miracle, more like.” You take two steps to catch up with him, walking at his side as he complains. “I thought I would have to camp here over night.” He sneers at the air in front of him, as though he loathes even the breathing room in the store. He has his hands out of his pockets again, swinging widely. You tend to keep a close watch on his hands, which is something you cannot help. You wonder if he’d think that that’s weird, that you just really like to watch him do things, like make tea and write and flail his arms in frustration. You also realize that he is very, very quiet right now, and that he has slowed to a tortoise’s pace, watching you watch his hands. He is short of breath, and you think that that is probably why he is so quiet. Your mind was clearly busy with other thoughts when you two were walking up the aisles, and you just now realize that one of your steps equal about three of his. This is the biggest store, you’re relatively sure, in the entire town, and walking the expanse of it at your pace has made Arthur slightly winded. 

You nearly stop short when it hits you just how thin and preposterously delicate the man beside you appears to be. You slow your pace to his, barely at a shuffle, as he grasps his side and winces. You didn’t realize it before now, but it looks as though there is something really physically wrong with him. You look over the bones in his arms, the knobbiness of his wrists and shoulders beneath his thin sweater. You don’t believe you were so oblivious to this fact before, but it truly appears that the man beside you is in excruciating pain.

“Are you feeling okay, Art?” You gently grasp his arm above his elbow, making eye contact for only a split second before he yanks away. He stares at the floor beneath him and continues to walk, now a man on a mission. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” he says with bated breath, clenching his fists at his sides. “Why would you even ask that, idiot?” There is a certain weariness in his voice that concerns you to no end. You turn your eyes forward again, walking at his pace. He would not tell you what is wrong today, and you did not ever expect him to if he did not choose to, however, you would like to at least make sure he is okay. You are really genuinely concerned for his health, and begin to speculate what exactly the piece of information is that you are missing. 

You approach the counter with a practiced smile, but this one is more difficult to make convincing than usual. You set down the postcard and at last minute decide to buy a pack of gum from the shelf on the counter. You hand over a ten dollar bill and tell the cashier to keep the change. Your mind is in a completely separate universe as you walk out the doors of the store and into the cool, salty air of the evening outside. You pop a piece of gum into your mouth as the cool night air blasts at you, pushing your hair out of your face. You really had been in there for three hours.

You hear a sudden intake of breath from the man beside you. He is huddled tight in his sweatshirt, and although the icy chill that stung your face earlier no longer hung in the air, Arthur was shaking like a leaf. Without a thought, you put the handle of the plastic bag with “THANK YOU” on it in your mouth as you shimmy out of your old bomber jacket. It takes you a full two seconds to slip it over his shoulders, tugging the collar gently snug beneath his chin. He glares at you, arms still crossed, teeth chattering.

“What the b-bloody hell do you think y-you’re doing?” He is still quaking with cold as he forces the words through his teeth. You look straight into his green-eyed-glare, your mouth a straight line.

“You need it more than I do.”

“I d-don’t, you bloody git!” Despite his words, he shifts his arms to grab hold of the jacket and pull it tighter around himself.

“You’re freezing, Art.” You stand to the side and begin walking at his pace, sending a sideways glance his direction. He has now shimmied himself into the sleeves, and something warm springs up in your chest at the sight of your jacket falling loosely on his shoulders. 

“I am n-no-not freezing-ng!” He clenches his teeth shut in an attempt to stop the shivering, looking indignant. You can’t help but let out a laugh at his stubbornness. He doesn’t respond, and instead merely walks in the opposite direction. You follow, confused, as he swerves a corner. This is not the way to the cafe.

“Hey, where are you going, Art?” You inquire, keeping a matched pace with the man. He stops dead in his tracks, looking at you exasperatedly. His shoulders are leaning forward and his caterpillar eyebrows are smashed together on his forehead like a collision of two little fuzzy trains. His teeth have stopped audibly chattering, but his mouth still quivers the slightest bit beneath his sneer.

“I am going home, you wanker.” He spits at you with as much venom as he can muster. You feel silly for even asking, as home was probably the only appropriate place for this man to be going at nine forty-five PM on a weekday. You look back at him, and all you can see is how small he is in your jacket. How much the bags under his green eyes have darkened, and how weak his knees have become to the cold shakes that have now taken their turn on his teeth and are traveling to do their job on the rest of him. 

“Can I walk you?” You ask. His expression softens a considerable amount and his mouth actually opens in surprise. His nose and cheeks are flushed with the cold in the air and his freckles stand out. Beneath his thick eyebrows, his eyes are an even brighter green next to the pink in his face. God, he is cute. For a moment he just stares at you like you are a cat who just asked him for the time. When he finally responds, he is still caught so much off guard that you do not receive a single insult.

“Fine,” he answers, and continues to walk. You follow alongside him, listening to his breathing and the quiet thunk of his boots and the soft pat of your sneakers against the ground. You can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter every time you look over and see his messy blonde hair sticking out over the fluffy collar of your jacket. You scoot up a centimeter, attempting to match his pace exactly, listening for the alignment of the sounds of your shoes. Your knuckles graze his as they swing back and forth between you, and you smile when he doesn’t flinch. You attempt to be nonchalant and swing your hands a little farther out and a little shallower, lightly grabbing his fingers next to you. He responds with surprising force, intertwining his fingers in yours and squeezing your hand with his thin, freckled one. Neither of you speak as you continue along the street, huddling closer with each step. By the time you reach his small shack of an apartment, your arms are interlinked and your fingers entwined, and you are rubbing the side of his hand mindlessly with your thumb. You refuse to let go of him until you are both standing on his porch, if it could be called that. You find yourself standing on the outer edge of the square foot of concrete, him opposite you with his back against the door. His eyes are downcast as he lets out a nervous laugh.

“Well, this is the place.” He looks up above your head, rolling his eyes. “The Grand Castle Kirkland.” He keeps his gaze high and off to the side, avoiding eye contact. He lets out a low chuckle at his joke and you laugh with him. You let the small smile stay on your lips as he stares through your shoulder, making slow progress to meeting your gaze. “So I suppose I should thank you for walking me home,” he says, now looking at your neck. “And also for letting me borrow this,” he shrugs his shoulders, gesturing to the jacket, finally meeting your eyes. “Even though I didn’t need it.” You let out a full on beam when his glare hits your face, and his expression slowly begins to change.

“No problem, Art.” You are practically radiating happiness and excitement and spontaneity at him, and he begins to visibly soak in some of the mood, you think. However, he also still has those shadows under his eyes, which are now heavy lidded, and he is leaning against the doorframe.... “You can actually hold onto the jacket if you wanna,” You say suddenly. He looks at you for a moment, confused. You take the chance before you can change your mind and run your hand into the back of his hair. You lean in close and touch your lips to his forehead slowly, inhaling the scent of soap and warmth and a million different teas and Arthur. You linger there for a moment, now with his hand against your ribs and him leaning against you instead of the doorway. You pull back from him, dropping your hand from the back of his head into his hand. “...Even though you didn’t need it.” He smiles like you’ve never seen him smile before, and you discover that he has dimples. You make a note to yourself to see them more often. “I should probably be off then, considering I’ve got kind of a big day tomorrow.” You say mischievously, dropping his hand and forcing an oscar-worthy artificial yawn. He yawns for real, before his curiosity breaks.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” He asks quietly. You notice how different his voice is now than it was three hours ago, with sleep setting in a deeper undertone. His voice is amazing and smooth and fantastic and you want to hear more of it.

“I mean,” you elaborate, “I have a breakfast date with a boy who owes me a jacket.” You watch his face squint into a glare as he returns with a characteristic, practically autopiloted response. He shakes his head as he speaks.

“Bloody idiot.” He shifts his gaze downward and turns to face his door, fishing in his pants pocket for his house key. You laugh at his incessant need to be insulting, even when he is barely coherent. As he jiggles the handle and swings the door open, you take his fingers once more and pull him around to face you, less than three inches away. His eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open as you reach around to support the small of his back, as he is falling over. You press in forward, closing your eyes as you find his lips. They are chapped and soft and wonderful. You feel his cold nose brush your cheek as he pushes his weight onto his tiptoes, leaning into you. Your glasses press close in between the two of you, creating a slightly uncomfortable sensation on your face, and probably his, but neither of you care. He is warm and perfect and for the smallest moment nothing else exists. You are sad to have to pull away, but you remind yourself that you both need some sleep. He drops down back to his normal height, but you have not moved your hand from behind him, still holding his weight mindlessly.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” you say. He returns with that smile again, and you cannot help but smile yourself. You let him go and he steps into the doorway. He laughs a little and responds in his sleepy voice. 

“Goodnight, Alfred.” He pauses in the open doorway, looking at you, his expression suddenly scrunching into a mischievous smirk. “You git.” He smiles once more as you wave and begin to make your way back to the motel. You hear his door close softly behind you, and the moment you do you break out into an all out skip. You are a grown man in the middle of a nowhere port town at nearly eleven at night and you are skipping down the streets of the neighborhood. You look absolutely, completely ridiculous, and you could not care one single bit. You practically float your way back to the motel, with one thing and one thing only on your mind.

Needless to say, you will be getting breakfast at a certain nameless cafe first thing in the morning.

 

You close the door behind you, leaning up against it and sliding down to sit with your back pressed against the wood. You cannot stop smiling as you pull up your knees into an embrace against your chest. Your legs and your sides are beginning to ache with the strain of the day, and you know you will feel it tomorrow but in this moment you don’t care. You can still feel him on you, holding the small of your back and his lips against yours. You can still feel his hand twitch in yours as you stand on tiptoe, pressing softly into him. You can still smell him, so much of him it is intoxicating, all rain and cinnamon and heat. You can still taste the muted fruity tones on his lips from his gum, holding yours, so sure. You lean your head back against the door frame and stretch your feet out in front of you, pressing your eyes closed, trying to set the memory in stone in your mind.

You bring yourself to your feet at last, slipping off your shoes and removing his coat only to take off your own sweater. You undress as you walk to your room, dropping your clothes in a pile on the floor next to your bed and pulling on a pair of flannel pants and an old t-shirt from your grunge teen days. You pull his jacket back on, inhaling the scent of him clinging to the collar as you flop down on your mattress. You cringe a little and let out a small squeak of indignation as your body smacks down, hitting the bed springs. Despite the fact that you are floating on cloud nine, you cannot deny the fact that you are going to pay dearly for your outing with the lovely Alfred today. You let out a sigh as you walk back down the hall to the kitchen.

You turn the kettle on as you take out a mug and rifle through the cupboards for a bottle of ibuprofen. You pull out the ingredients for cinnamon tea, pulling the screeling kettle off of the stove and flicking it off. You make yourself a cup of tea, humming tunelessly as you reflect on your day.

You have to admit that when Alfred said he wanted to take you somewhere, you assumed he did not mean a trip to the department store. However, when he walked through the automatic doors of the one of two massive stores in the entire state, his expression began to wither away any sour emotions you might have had at his less than perfect choice of venue. He was like a four year old child on Christmas morning, and as he grabbed your hand, leading you down different aisles, your complaints started to turn into comments on what he was showing you. He explained that he travels around a lot for his job, even though it is mostly freelance. 

You watched his face closely as he explained that from every new town he visits, he buys a post card to send home to his brother. He told you that his brother Matthew practically raised him, and you allowed him to go on. He really looked up to him, Alfred said, he was an awesome guy. However, there was something in his tone that made you wonder if there was something he wasn’t telling you.

“Alfred, I don’t mean to pry, but I was wondering, exactly why did Matthew have to raise you?” You pressed your eyebrows together in genuine curiosity, looking over at him. His eyes did not move from the ground and you saw his expression shrink to that sad face that you only saw for a millisecond in the cafe. This was much worse than that time, however. He looked entirely broken, like the words you said had hit him hard in the chest and cut a hole through his center.

“I guess my parents just weren’t around,” he said in a tone that made a sharp sensation pang in your chest. You grabbed his hand, and his eyes met yours. His expression was absolutely heartbreaking, his eyebrows gently knitted together above the bridge of his nose, the corners of his perfect mouth set down in his jawline in a small frown. His blue eyes were years away as you squeezed his hand, preparing to speak words of comfort, when he suddenly yanked you by the hand down the aisle, spotting something apparently interesting in the lamp section.

You sip at your cup of tea as you remember his expression in the store, and can’t help but wonder just what he was thinking about. You down two of the little red pills, knowing from experience that if you do not take them before you go to sleep you will be in the third circle of hell in the morning. As you carry yourself sleepily to your room, Alfred’s frown haunts the back of your mind like a parasite. You hate that he has to be so sad and that you cannot do a single thing about it. You suppose that he smiles so often because it has proved to be an effective mask. You want desperately to talk to him again, to really talk to him. Maybe if he knew about your family situation he might be more willing to share about his own. Your heart sinks at the thought of having to go through that story. 

Your sides ache as you set down your tea on the shelf next to your bed, reinforcing the thoughts of your past. You pull the collar of his jacket close, breathing in his scent, hoping to banish the now incessant memories of your childhood. It works flawlessly, as you not only forget to remember the past, but also remember again his smile. 

His mouth and his lips and his hands. His laugh and how warm and steady he is. How undeniably delicious he always smells, even in the cold. You remember your entwined hands swinging under the cloudy night sky. You remember the sounds of your shoes and his hitting the ground, combined with the sounds of your breathing and heartbeats, creating a harmony of unsteady rhythms in the still, heavy cold of the night. You remember every detail of him and his face and his scent and his voice and his intense sadness as well as his constant, growingly contagious happiness. You want to talk to him and be with him so badly that it creates a different kind of pain in your ribcage, a physical side effect of intense longing.

You drift off to sleep, still wearing the jacket. You think to yourself that you will wake up early tomorrow morning and get yourself a cell phone before work. For the first time, you smile at the thought of going to work in the morning. After all, you have a date with a particularly determined customer.


	4. I Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You haven’t got much, you think._
> 
> _But you’ve got Arthur Kirkland, and as long as you have that much, nothing else matters._

You return his jacket the next morning, and that day begins the routine of your adventures with Alfred F. Jones. For the next week, he arrives at nine o'clock sharp every morning, telling you to give him the best thing you’ve got and a cup of tea. It makes your heart skip a beat when you realize that he’s probably not talking about the food. His smiles are a constant, lighting up the cloudy town as well as, or possibly better than, the sun could. You make little jabs at him, his loud laugh and how immature he is. He would respond, saying how that was probably not the best way to treat your only regular customer. Mornings in the cafe became one of the best things you had in your life. However, the highlight of your days is always after work.

He walked you home every day, without hesitation or a second thought about it. He always let you wear his jacket, even when you didn’t need it (though you admit you usually did). Your hands were connected until the moment he would leave you at your doorstep. Your goodbyes got longer and breathier and heavier with each one. You had made it a point to memorize his torso with your hands, and he had done the same. You discovered that he wore dogtags around his neck, artifacts that he said were silly but nostalgic. The jacket he wore became yours as well, and a bit of a liability during your goodbyes. You felt your nerves tingle every time you thought about cinnamon or earth or the color blue, and found it extremely corny. However corny it was, though, Alfred was the best thing that had happened to you up to that point in your life.

You had followed through that day before work and gotten yourself a cell phone, and it opened up a whole new line of communication with Alfred. You kept it in your pocket at work, and he sent you little messages by text that made your heart flutter in your chest, threatening to burst out of your body. He was always at your work of course, but there were times when he wanted to say something to you that he didn’t want any other ears to hear. In that case he would send you a text and simply watch from across the restaurant as your face flushed or scrunched up in frustration. However, to your dismay, this was not one of those times.

The old lady who comes on a regular basis has just finished her meal and left cash on the table, leaving in silence. You walk over to the table, picking up her mess and tossing it into the bin you use for such purposes. You slip the cash into the pocket on the front of your apron, balancing the bin on your hip as you trudge back over to the back of the counter. You feel a buzz against your chest and furrow your eyebrows in frustration. You are acutely aware of the fact that Alfred and yourself are the only ones in the cafe now, as Francis did not show up on Mondays. You slide the money into the cash drawer and gently set the bin down next to the sink, leaning against the counter as you slide the phone out of your breast pocket. You look over at Alfred as you unlock the phone and open the text, but he refuses to look over at you. Your expression softens in worry as you realize his eyes are years away again, and his smile has vanished. You are aware of how dark the room feels as you read the text message.

You read it over a few times, your heart pounding in your chest like a jackhammer. i wanna talk 2 u bout somethin. It’s a simple statement, and under normal circumstances, you would not be so nervous. If Alfred had said it to you instead of sent it to you, you wouldn’t be so worried. If he was smiling and not staring out the window, eyes glazed over, then maybe your breathing wouldn’t be speeding up at the sight of the words. You send a reply by text message and make your way over to the small table he is sitting at. You lean your arms on the surface, covering nearly the entire slab of washed out wood. You fold your hands neatly in front of you to keep them occupied. He is still facing away from you as you hear his phone ding in his pocket and watch him read the text.

The conversation that follows teaches you several important things about Alfred F. Jones. The first is that he is much more mature than he gives himself credit for. The second is that there is a lot of him that you still do not know. The third is that he is a very bad at being dishonest. 

The last and most unbelievable thing that you learn that day about Alfred F. Jones is that he has fallen absolutely and completely, totally and irreversibly, in love with you.

 

You slide your cell phone out of the pocket of your jacket, aware of the man who has placed himself across the table from you, watching you intently. You know it was silly and immature to try and start a conversation like this, but for some reason you were having immense difficulty being able to speak aloud. Your insides are hollow and you cannot quite explain why. You gaze at the text message on the small backlit screen, and swallow hard, trying to rid the feelings of dread and anxiety at what you have to tell Arthur.

I’m listening. Is all it says, and you let that sink in a moment as you close your eyes. You breathe in and imagine that you aren’t scared or sad or empty. You turn your body towards the man across the small table, eyes still closed. You take in a huge breath and open your eyes, letting out the air in a huff, visibly deflating at the sight of worried green eyes over freckles and perfection. You drop your arms on the table in front of you, putting your head down to hide behind them.

“I’m sorry Arthur,” you mumble into your jacket, trying to keep your voice steady. You could do this. You could have a mature, adult conversation with this man that you adored so much. You feel his hand on your head, and you tilt your face up to meet it. He holds the side of your face and looks into you with nothing in his eyes but concern and bright intensity.

“What could you ever be sorry for, love?” He says in reply. Your heart dances in your chest at the word love, and you find yourself blushing in spite of yourself. You can no longer hold in the words you want to say as you look at him straight in the face. 

“I am sorry because I gotta go soon. I wanna stay here with you and I can’t because I only got one job and it’s all I can do to make money and survive and help out my brother and I can’t stay here. If he finds out what I’m doing and that I’m not working he’s gonna be even worse off and I can’t let that happen and I’m so sorry, Art.” Your voice hitches on his name. You swallow and take another breath before continuing. “I can’t afford my room here anymore and I gotta do my job....” You look hopelessly up at him, and his hands are now in your own, gripping tight. He looks down at the table, brow furrowed in thought. You cannot stop the heat pricking at the corners of your eyes as you listen to his voice.

“Although I do not like it, I understand that it is what you have to do. I don’t want to you leave either,” he pauses and looks up at you. He sees that your eyes have clouded over with the beginning of tears and moves around to the other side of the table in an instant. He positions his chair so that you can lean your head against his chest, curled up against him. It’s not entirely comfortable, but you want to be as close as you can possibly get to him. “I think that what you’re doing is a very mature decision. But I do wonder how right it could be to do something that hurts you so much.” He puts his face in your hair and sighs. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” You whisper into his work apron, full of the smells of tea and shore and Arthur. Even being this close to him you still hurt, and the hollow feeling that had become a constant throughout your life is now a gaping black hole, throbbing inside of your ribs. You hear rain patting on the window behind you. You let a tear slip out and hate yourself for crying, but you don’t think you can handle it anymore. You truly believe that there is no healthy way for you to leave this man.

“Then don’t,” he whispers back, face in your hair. His voice is small and pleading, and your heart flutters at the sound as he kisses you on the top of your head. “Nobody is making you leave,” he says, his voice still small. You turn your head into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. “Stay with me.” He finally says, the words barely more than air now. You don’t know how to respond at first. It dawns on you exactly what he is offering, exactly what he means. How much he wants you to stay here. You place a small kiss on the underside of his jaw, your eyes wide, afraid to respond.

“Are you sure that’s okay, Art?” You are still whispering, afraid to break the soft barrier of the moment, holding you two in a quiet embrace. “I mean, I guess I’d get a job somewhere here and I’d have to help pay rent and what about my f-mph.” He cuts you off, kissing you with more conviction than you imagined he ever could hold in his tiny frame. You are tied close and you want to be closer. He tastes like some indescribable combination of spices and soap and salt and you want to stay with him. He pulls his mouth away from yours, giving you a final peck.

“I am positive.” He says into your neck.

“Arthur,” you breathe into his shoulder. “There’s somethin’ else I need to tell you.” He pulls back his face to look at you in confusion, caterpillar eyebrows furrowed. “I think that I,” you pause, flustered. You lean into him again, playing with a loose thread on his apron. “I mean I know it’s stupid and I’ve only known ya for like a week and I guess I just think I might,” you stop once more, trying to get the words out. You’re afraid of what he will say and think, but when you finally say it you know that the words are true. “I’m in love with you, Arthur.” There is a heavy pause in the air hanging between you as he looks back at you. His eyes flick back and forth between yours, and he places a small, soft kiss on your forehead, lingering close as he speaks.

“I am absolutely in love with you, Alfred F. Jones.” You feel a small smile on his lips as he leans into your forehead, and you aren’t hollow anymore. The pieces fit and you don’t care that your brother hates you or that your dad hated you or that you couldn’t stay there. You don’t care about all of those stupid names your brother called you when he found out about you leaving. You didn’t care what he had to say. None of it mattered because you were with Arthur, and Arthur loved you. “Would you like to go somewhere with me?” He whispers, still close.

You grin and laugh just the smallest bit as you roll your eyes.

“Only if you insist.”

You connect lips with Arthur again and you are in total bliss. It crosses your mind that this is heaven and he is an angel and you do not deserve him. The thought doesn’t last. Nothing lasts except for him, his lips, his hands. You explore each other’s mouths for you don’t know how long. You hear the rain intensify and lighten up. You know that he’s left the dirty dishes in the bin on the counter. His phone still sits on the table when it buzzes, and neither of you care to stop long enough for him to pick it up. You have moved from off of the chairs and now you are sitting up against the wall with him on top of your knees, holding your face in his hands. All you can feel is heat and pressure and all you can smell and taste and see is Arthur and the world is perfect.

Luckily for you, there are no other customers that day. By the time you two have gotten up and begun to breathe properly again, the light outside has faded into a gloomy gray, and small raindrops still splatter on the windows. He washes the dishes and punches out, grabbing his phone off of the table and his suitcase. You still think it is adorable that he brings a suitcase to work with him at a cafe, and you beam at him as he walks over to you.

“Shall we?” You hold out your arm, bowing the slightest bit to be at more level height with him. He glares at you and smacks your arm, before promptly grabbing your hand, squeezing tight. You laugh and hear him chuckle, looking over in time to catch a glimpse of his dimples.

“Bloody git.” He kisses you on the cheek and you walk together out of the store. You realize that it is raining and you actually need to be wearing your jacket tonight. You slip it off anyway, wrapping it and your arm around the far side of Arthur’s shoulders, holding it over your heads. You walk like that all the way back to his house, and he gives you a heated goodnight kiss under your portable shield from the rain.

“Promise me you’ll still be here in the morning,” he whispers into your chest, holding tight around your waist. His voice is sleepy again and something burns inside of you. You pick him up off of the ground, kissing him again, as he wraps his legs around your back. You feel like you might explode from the tension and the need to be closer to him. You pull back and set him down on the ground, giving him a final chaste kiss on the forehead.

“I promise.” You say. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” He whispers. His voice is like magic, slipping through the air and making your insides churn with warmth. He’s smiling again and you cannot believe how wonderful he is. “Goodnight, my love,” he says finally, standing in the doorway.

“Goodnight Arthur.” You whisper, smiling so big that your face hurts. You turn to go and he closes the door. You feel like you’re connected to him with a rubber band as you walk away, and you want to turn around so badly and just return to him, hug him. You keep going however, keeping the thought in mind that you will see him again. You will see him tomorrow and you will move in with him. You will be able to take him to work and be with him as often as he needs. You will make sure he is safe and secure and not hurting. You have known this man for ten days and you love him senseless. You know how stupid it is, how reckless. But you also know how undeniably right everything about him is. You love him and he loves you and for you, it can be that simple.

You walk back to the inn, gathering your thoughts on the business side of your brain. You make a note to yourself to put something up on your blog, letting people know that you aren’t dead or anything. Once you are back in your room, you begin folding clothes and gathering everything you have with you into a small pile. You laugh a little as you realize it is a very small pile. You haven’t got much, you think.

But you’ve got Arthur Kirkland, and as long as you have that much, nothing else matters.


	5. Tell Me About Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of crying and even more kissing. A decision is finalized and these are the most irresponsible adults you've ever heard of.

The next morning carries you on to what you perceive to be a hasty, stupid, childish thing to do. Among all of these things, however, you find it a necessary task to keep someone you love from being hurt. You wake up unintentionally early, and if the clock did not tell you otherwise you would assume that it was still night. Regardless of the young hour, you are happier than you have been in far too long. Even your sore frame cannot dampen the joy that runs through your veins, expels from your lungs. You are nearly skipping around your small home, picking up little things, tidying up the far corners of the house. The anxiety doesn’t hit until after you have eaten and bathed and headed to work.

In the time it takes for you to make your way the first two blocks down the street, you start thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a grand idea. What if he doesn’t like the place? Where will you two sleep? Will you have to sleep on the sofa? Will he want to sleep with you or would he find that proposition too forward? Where would he keep his things? What if he can’t adjust? What if he’s a lazy slob? What if things get bad? What if, like everybody else, he gets sick of you and leaves? These last thoughts clog your mind as you think about your prior living situations, none of which were desirable in the least. Your boots smack against the damp ground as the cafe comes into sight. Your intense anxiety turns into anger as you see that there are already two people inside the cafe. You collect yourself, expecting a customer and Francis. Who on earth would come to this place this early in the morning?

You decide that you probably should have guessed who would be there as you swing the front door open to the twinkling of bells above your head. He is sitting at the bar, blue eyes on you as you enter the door, a smile still on his lips from the conversation he must have been having with your coworker. Your anxiety and anger now fight with another emotion that hits you as he beams at you, creating something like a small nuclear reaction on your insides. You smile back as you walk behind the counter and begin preparing for the day. You roll your eyes as you notice that Francis has done nothing but punch in and pour himself yet another glass of wine.

“Well aren’t we the early bird,” you say as you pick up the notepad and pencil from the counter. You feel that it is a silly action, seeing as though you already know what he’ll ask for. However, as you look up to meet his gaze, you are glad to have something to hold onto. 

“I always am, Art,” he looks at you menacingly, cracking his fingers. “Sleep is for the weak.” He relaxes his expression and sets his elbows on the counter in front of you, fingers interlaced. He rests his face on his hands and smirks at you, a single brow raised. You sit there for a moment, taking in the sight of one another, memorizing the lines and shapes of each other’s facial structures, every imperfection and uneven line. You finally blink as he begins to speak again. “So are you gonna ask me what I want or what?” He drops his hands on the counter in front of you, sliding his ten dollars onto it a few inches away from you. You are aware of your coworker standing down the bar, humming to himself and pretending he cannot see you two. You are grateful for the small courtesy that the bastard is giving you, because what you’re about to do is something you hope there are no witnesses to. You lean over the counter, your hair brushing up against the side of his face. 

Too quietly for Francis to hear, you whisper up against Alfred’s ear. “Why would I ask love,” you pause and kiss his jaw just below his ear. “When I already know?” You cannot help the small chuckle that escapes as you feel him shiver next to you. You pull back and beam at his wide-eyed expression, his mouth agape. Despite his obvious physical advantage, you have an unprecedented amount of power over this man, and although that should not give you so much joy, it does make you amused if nothing else. You lean back against the counter, now sending a satisfied smirk in his direction. You lick the end of the pencil unnecessarily and ready it over the notepad, watching his eyes on your every move. “Now what may I get you today, sir?” He swallows hard and gathers himself, his eyes returning to a normal circumference and his mouth setting itself back into its usual curve.

“Well,” he pauses and looks at you, an eyebrow quirked. Your face is flushed and you cannot help but feel a little bit indignant that all it took to get you flustered was a suggestive glance. “I guess I’ll take the best thing you’ve got and a cup of tea.” He rests his head on his hands again as his expression breaks out into his trademark stunning smile. He looks at you for a moment before you turn around, unable to contain your grin long enough to not look like an idiot. You begin the start of scones and eggs as usual, and you hear a shift of thick heeled shoes from the other end of the bar. You turn your gaze up to glare at Francis, who is practically strutting his way towards the sign in station. He looks over at you, winking as he speaks.

“Would you mind too terribly, Arthur, if I were to take ze rest of zis day for myself?” He begins signing out as he talks, clearly not caring what your answer is. “I ‘ave a few vacation days, after all, and it isn’t raining yet.” He gestures out the window as he unties his apron, walking over to the coat rack beside the door.

“Quite frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck in space what you do, Francis,” you sneer. “However, seeing as how I am not in a position of authority, I wouldn’t be able to stop you anyway.” You glare at him, breaking your mask for a moment to try and remind him that actually this less-than-subtle move is much appreciated, but also risky. “Although, as a fellow worker, I do not know how secure your job position in this establishment would be upon your return.” You raise your eyebrows at him as he hangs the apron and places his hand on the doorknob. He looks over at you, mouth quirked up to one side.

“Do not take zis ze wrong way, mon ami, but I would not be too ‘eartbroken were I to be, ‘ow you say, ah,” he focuses his eyes, searching for the right phrase. “Let go.” He winks again and shrugs a little as he opens the door to leave. You return to the dish as he steps out into the chilly air with some final muffled words of advice. “Don’t make a mess of ze place,” you hear him mumble as he walks away, whistling the tune that only he knows. You spin around in anger, trying to catch sight of the man before the door slams behind him. You intend to shoot him down for saying something so inappropriate when you realize that the door is already closed, and you catch sight of Alfred, still sitting across from you. You realize that he is blushing, and you smile a little at how undeniably adorable that is, and make a note to yourself to make that happen more often. You find it endearing how little things can affect him so intensely and so quickly. You turn back to the meal and allow him to have a moment of privacy with his thoughts. 

You put together the plate, today with a little bit more grace, actually putting effort into the finished product. You set down the plate in front of him, the silverware a small line beside it, taking care to make sure each piece is lined up perfectly. You pull out a mug and prepare his usual blend of cinnamon tea and put as much care into the process as you can manage. You know for a fact he is watching you, his face leaned against the palm of his hand. You smile and realize that you had begun to mindlessly sing to yourself as soon as your coworker left the building. You slide the cup next to his plate and wait as he begins eating breakfast. The cafe is mostly silent, but to you it is a harmony of your own soft singing and clinking and breathing and the sound of your heart beating much too fervently in your chest. You watch him eat almost as closely as he watched you make the meal, thinking about what this day might bring, and feeling the anxiety wash over you again. When he is finished, he looks up at you with a thoughtful expression, his head quirked to the side.

“You know what Art,” he says, smiling again. “I think you’ve been holding out on me here.” He squints his eyes into a mischievous grin, breaking any sense of resolve you might have had, cutting through your nervousness.

“And what exactly do you mean by that, sir Alfred?” You ask him in a mocking tone, leaning back against the far counter on your elbows, looking at him with furrowed brows. There was no deciding here; you were playing along with him because there was no way you couldn’t. Not to say that you didn’t enjoy it as much as he did.

“What I mean,” he stops and lets out a laugh before continuing. “What I mean, Prince Arthur, is that you have been lying to me by omission.” He tips his chin down and looks at you in a silly sort of serious way that you attempt to mirror, but have trouble doing so. This is mostly due to the fact that he just called you a prince, and despite the general immaturity of that statement, the idea that he would give you any kind of pet name made your heart swell. You step forward from the counter, tipping your heels forward to lean into the bar opposite him. “What I mean is that you have not been giving me the best thing on the menu.” His eyes are on yours and it is only a moment before you remember how to breathe again. When you do, however, his smile is still in place, and you remember what you had intended to ask him the previous night. You pull away from him quickly, the thought now in your mind as you struggle not to lose it.

“I may be willing to change that, actually,” you say. “You see, a certain ‘bloody git’ promised that he would go somewhere with me, and I am quite sure that if he follows through with that promise,” you pause and lean in again, touching the end of his nose with your forefinger. “I believe that he will get what he has been asking for.” You quirk a wide smile in his direction as he takes your hand from his nose and does not let go as he gets up and, rather ungracefully, brings you around to the other side of the counter. He pulls you into an embrace, holding the small of your back with one hand and grasping your other. You rest your hand on the back of his neck as you twirl around the little restaurant, bumping into the small tables and knocking over chairs, laughing all too often and simultaneously not nearly often enough, calling him all of the names your memory holds. Before you can catch your breath, his laughter stops long enough to dip you and give you a formal -dare you say- princely kiss on the mouth. He pulls you back up to a standing position and leans forward, taking your hand again and kissing it softly against your knuckles.

“I would go anywhere with you, Arthur, my prince,” He beams back at you, looking down into your face. He is a massive cheeseball, but you could not be happier for it. You both stand there for a while, hand in hand, toe to toe, rocking back and forth mindlessly. A few moments of bliss later you decide that there could not be anything more important here in this restaurant today than this man, and that the consequences of playing hooky for a day were far outweighed by the advantages.

“How about we take that little outing now, then?” You ask, looking up at him with a hopeful expression. He looks back at you, a little unsure, clearly worried about the possible repercussions of skipping a day at work. “If you’re wondering, I won’t be fired. My boss is a bloody old coot who doesn’t even leave his house anymore. The last time he came in was three years ago, and even then he wasn’t coherent enough to do anything.” You roll your eyes as you think of the poor old windbag. Not that you liked him, but you did pity him at times. He had no family to take care of him or inherit the cafe, which is why you actually did, unbeknownst to Alfred, practically own the place. Or you would in time, anyway. You watch his expression change from worry to excitement as he grabs the sides of your face and kisses you. He watches you with eager eyes as you punch out and untie the apron, hanging it up by the door. It doesn’t take more than three seconds after the door is shut and locked behind you for him to have his jacket slipped around your shoulders. You savor the familiar scent and feel of the fabric against your neck and arms. You look around to catch his eye as he poses an inquiry.

“So, where exactly are we going, anyways?” He tilts his head to the side, grabbing your hand in his as you walk in the general direction of your house. Your final destination would be there, eventually, in order to do the business of moving Alfred in. However, the place which you are currently headed to is only about three blocks out from your home, and coincidentally is also remarkably close to the inn that Alfred is staying at. You look over at him, one thick eyebrow quirked inquisitively skywards, wiggling your fingers in his hand.

“Tell me darling,” you ask. He blushes, as you had hoped, at the word and you continue. “How do you feel about fishing?”

 

You remember being young and in school. A little boy with a squeaky voice and spectacles, the big shot on the little league baseball team The teachers loved you for your participation and surprising level of intelligence for a so-called-jock. Everybody knew who you were and there was not a single person you had met who you did not like. As far as your knowledge extended to, there was nobody you had met that did not like you, either. You remember yourself as the bright-eyed, messy-haired kid, sitting in the middle of the class, with the support of a community around you. You remember having sat in the desk smack dab in the center of your homeroom class at the beginning of September, your thirteen-year-old self holding a dull pencil in your hand. The essay prompt was to write five paragraphs about where you saw yourself in five or ten years. You remember that day, because it was the first and last time you cried at school. The truth was that the thirteen-year-old golden boy baseball star that everybody knew and loved was not who he was believed to be. The truth was that he had no idea where he wanted to be in five to ten years, because sitting in that classroom, and even after leaving it, the young Alfred F. Jones had no idea who he was.

Even if you had known, however, you highly doubt that you would have predicted yourself to be on a fishing boat off of the coast of Maine with a lovely British man, talking about everything you have ever known. You would not have predicted yourself to be a food critic. You would not have assumed that by this point in your life you would have come to recognize yourself as homosexual, and that despite how many times you told yourself that other people’s opinions didn’t matter, that truly and wholly they did. You did expect to be in love, however, you do admit that you had imagined it much differently than it had turned out. You did not care. Arthur Kirkland is better than anything you could have imagined or could ever imagine.

Now he sits next to you, holding a fishing rod loosely in his hands, leaning against the front of the small boat he has rented for the two of you. You have never gone fishing before, and in all honesty you don’t entirely understand it yet. You have been sitting out on the water for about two hours, and neither of you have gotten a nibble of anything. You are enjoying the experience for Arthur’s company, however, and he seems to be -surprisingly enough- enjoying the activity (or rather, the lack thereof). You have made the delightful discovery that he sings to himself often, and that his voice is just as entrancing in song as it is when he is sleepy. You have been attempting to avoid conversation purposefully, selfishly, to hear his soft, velvet voice mumble tunes under his breath beside you on the boat. You discover that he has a rather pleasant taste in music, and you memorize folk songs as he sings them. Through a near twenty minute stretch of this, you find yourself breathing small sighs and closing your eyes, swaying with the movement of the boat. You look over at his face and take a mental picture of the scene, burning him into your mind. He turns his eyes towards you, still swaying slightly with the inner music that he seems to carry around.

“You have a really good voice, Art,” you say lightly, afraid to break the fragile bubble that you two exist in now. You watch his face turn red at the compliment and see his freckles stand out. “I mean it’s really lovely.” He laughs at the fact that you just used the word ‘lovely’ to describe him. He looks out at the water and his eyes drift a million miles away, and you find yourself leaning in closer to him, a fiery curiosity set in your features.

“For a while, when I was little, I wanted to be a singer.” He says, his eyes on the water. “I had a lot of different silly phases, honestly. I wanted for a while to be a cook, a pilot, a doctor. More than anything though,” he looks down at his hands and laughs. “I was a stupid kid. I wanted to be a musician. We had one of those silly garage bands and we wore awful clothing and I played guitar because the other bandmates were my brothers,” he trails off, his voice growing small. “They didn’t want me to sing. Looking back it was probably because--I suppose that I,” He trails off again, stopping to reel in the line a few spins. His eyes are years away and his brows are set in little perfect grooves above the bridge of his nose. You want him to keep going, you want him to be able to share this with you, whatever it may be. You feel like there is something heavy in this conversation, something dark on his mind that he needs to tell you and is finding a way around to it.

“That you what, Art?” You look wait a moment and he meets your eye contact, giving a determined look. You remember the same expression on his face in the store the other day and find yourself preparing for the worst. He is a man on a mission.

“I think I reminded them too much of my mother.” He says, breaking eye contact and looking back out over the water. “Though we never did meet her.” He sighs, blowing a piece of his bangs skyward, and the words alone make you want to scoot over to him and grab him up in your lap. “She didn’t die, nothing like that, she just never had the strong enough desire to meet her children. Not that we blamed her for that,” he pauses, swallowing hard and looking at you with anxious eyes. “Listen, I’m going to tell you some things that may or may not make you uncomfortable, and I just need you to promise me that you’ll still be here, even when you know those things.” He looks as though he might cry, and you rig the fishing pole up to the side of the boat and scoot towards the center of the deck. You open your arms and gesture him over, and he keeps hold on his line, curling into your lap as you place your hands around his. You plant a kiss in his hair and he breathes in, continuing with the speech. 

“See, my mother, she didn’t want to have children.” he says, his breath starting to come faster now. “My father didn’t care.” You squeeze him in a tight hug in an attempt to comfort him and slow his breathing as you let the facts sink in. “He was a terrible man. He did a lot of things to my brothers and I that put us through complete, absolute hell. Even though I’m not the youngest, a lot of my brothers did things to me too.” He sucks in a gasp of air, knuckles white around the handle of the fishing pole. “He said I looked like her. That’s what they told me, that I looked like her, that I was her. That it was my fault.” You hear his voice catch but he continues on. “I was very physically ruined at young age, quite frankly, and that’s why I do not have especially high levels of endurance.” He breathes a sigh. “I was told by doctors that with the amount of broken bones I had acquired I was lucky to even be walking. I had to effectively go through detoxification for three years, because I had so many infections and health issues. The abuse, they said, stunted my growth when I was just shy of fourteen.” He breathes in a massive breath of air, letting it leave as you feel him relax in your arms. You put your face in his hair and plant another kiss before speaking quietly.

“Arthur, I love you.” You sigh into his hair before continuing. “I am so sorry that you had to go through that. I really truly am; your family sounds like a bunch of assholes and you deserve so much better. But I’m telling you now,” You lean forward, resting your chin on his shoulder, your lips to his ear. “I am not them, love.” You plant a kiss on his neck and keep going. “You are my Prince Arthur and I am your hero. I will not let anybody on this earth hurt you that way or any way as long as I have the power to breathe.” He turns to look at you with teary eyes, and you reach up and wipe away the water with the side of your thumb. Despite how cliche the words sound, you mean every syllable, and he knows that. You kiss his forehead and he drops the fishing pole on the floor of the boat, grabbing at the back of your shirt like it is his last scrap of life. You let him sit there for a while, watching the sun move the colors in his hair, feeling his tears turn the front of your shirt into a board. You watch the sun reach the center of the sky, and despite the direct beams shining at you, the wind is icy and the air is cold. You pick your jacket up from the floor of the boat and wrap it around Arthur’s shoulders. He turns in your lap to face the outside of the boat again, picking up the fishing pole, but refuses to move himself from your lap. You don’t mind. He heaves a sigh and leans his head back on your shoulder.

“So what about your family?” You had a feeling that was where this was going, but you didn’t know how to stop the conversation without seeming unreasonably rude. And you actually cared about everything there was to know about Arthur, even and especially what might hurt him. Those were things you would be on high alert for. You also understand that Arthur wanted to know things about you as well. As a matter of fact, the more you thought about it, the more it made sense to tell him about absolutely everything. You breathe in as deep as your lungs can handle in preparation for your own story.

“Well,” you breathe. “I don’t really know, to be honest.” You rub his wrist absentmindedly, thinking of where to start. “Alright. So my mom, she died when I was seven. I didn’t really understand so it didn’t hit me too hard, but for my dad and Matt, he was twelve, it was like life ended for them.” You knit your eyebrows together, thinking of the day when you found your brother at home when he was supposed to be at school for another hour, breaking things and yelling. “The fact that my mom died made me sad, sure, but I was just a little kid, I mean, I didn’t really get it, ya know? What really got to me was the way my dad acted after, and my brother, too.” You sigh before continuing on, hoping that you can get through all of the most important details for him. “Basically my dad became a really horrible alcoholic. It was hard for me and my brother ‘cuz he had to start working, because dad only came home sometimes during the weekends, and when he did he was shitfaced.” You shake your head, remembering times when you had to drag your father to the couch because he couldn’t get there himself. “My brother got odd jobs like lawn mowing and dog walking and stuff and also started working at this grocery store by our house. He got to be a really grumpy kid, always sad or pissed off and he hated taking care of me. After a while I just learned to take care of myself.” 

You frown, thinking back on all of the things you did to keep your head above water. “I’m going to be honest with you, after I turned about twelve I started doing some really bad stuff just to keep the rent up. Matt’s jobs weren’t cutting it anymore and I couldn’t find any work, so I kind of, just,” you drop your hands to your sides, causing Arthur to drop the fishing pole again and turn around to grab your hands, looking into your face. You couldn’t look back at him as you said the words, your face red with shame. “I started selling myself. I lived in a place where it happened and people just didn’t talk about it, and I hated myself for it. I still do, honestly. I told Matt that I was just doing stuff like babysitting or housesitting or cleaning houses and that sort of thing.” You feel heat pricking at the corners of your eyes and will the sensation to disappear, but you feel the water starting to brim over anyway. “By the time I was almost done with highschool I didn’t have friends anymore. I guess I was really popular or something because after a while I had a really big college savings thing going and people talked about me a lot. I got called a lot of names, though.” There are tears coming now, and Arthur has his arms wrapped snugly around your waist, with his head on your chest. “And people talked and when Matt found out he called me a faggot and yelled at me for a long time and said some really mean stuff. He kicked me out.” You breathe in again, trying to calm down enough to finish your story. “I had money, yeah, so that was good, but the bad thing was that I was just a kid, and everybody around knew what I’d done. So I had to leave.” You curl your arms to your chest, trying to make yourself small enough so that Arthur’s arms can reach around you completely. “I basically just took all my cash and got myself the fuck out of there. I got some older guy to pretend to be my dad so that I could get my license and then I left for the East Coast. I was honestly just looking for somewhere that I would fit, ya know?” The used up tears sit on your face and your voice has dwindled down to barely more than a whisper. He crawls up on you so that he can rest his face in the crook of your neck.

“Alfred F. Jones, you are the most beautiful, perfect human being I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.” He plants a kiss on the underside of your jaw. “Your past doesn’t define you. Your family doesn’t either.” He kisses you further down your jaw, crawling up your face. “You are so unbelievably strong.” Another kiss, this time on the side of your chin. “You, love, are my hero.” He looks at you with a startling fire in his eyes, determination written in the lines of his face. “I love you.” He grabs the sides of your face gently in his hands and kisses you. 

You close your eyes and everything is right again. His hands are in your hair, holding you fast to him. He is sitting on your lap, his feet linked together behind your back. The lines separating your mouths blur to near nonexistence as he kisses you. It’s salty and sweet and you discover that the smell of the two of you combined is drug-like in its intensity. You breathe in and you are breathing in Arthur. You hold his belt loops in the back of his pants as you stay that way, intertwined, savoring one another, until the sun starts to dip down to the other side of the sky. You untangle yourselves, and coincidentally, the fishing lines, as Arthur cranks the motor to push the boat back to the dock. You cannot help but think that he looks very attractive standing there with a foot up on the boat and your jacket draped over his shoulders. You smile a little as you have a small revelation there in the moving boat.

This man is Arthur Kirkland. You are moving in with him tonight. He is flawed and perfect. Not only is he your boyfriend, but this man is your Prince, and despite the cliche that you know it must seem, you are determined to wholeheartedly be his knight in shining armor, no matter how much it takes.


	6. Like a Freight Train for God's Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tonight is the night that you discover that Arthur Kirkland snores. Really fucking loudly._

By the time you reach the inn, you are exhausted beyond belief. Every part of you is aching as you trudge up the stairs of the hotel, trying desperately to keep up with Alfred. You try to focus on the fact that today -or rather, tonight- will be the only time you’ll have to climb this blasted, five story torture trap. When you reach the top floor (of course his room would be on the top floor), you nearly collapse at the top of the staircase, and have to brace yourself against the wall while you catch your breath. You wonder to yourself why on earth you would choose this plan, when Alfred could have done things so much faster on his own. It would have been easier for the both of you as well, you think, if you had walked straight home and waited for him to arrive. You want to make a witty remark on the situation, but you do not have the necessary air to say much of anything at the moment. Alfred has sprinted down to his room at the end of the hall before he spins on his heel, noticing your half-bent figure still at the top of the stairs.

His expression falls in an instant and he runs back over to you, gently grabbing your arms, trying to hold some of the burden that gravity is putting on your hunched, huffing figure. He dips his head down to look at you with fierce concern in his eyes.

“Are you alright Art?” He asks. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking and I’m being an asshole and I didn’t--”

“Will you please,” you pant, grabbing one of his elbows. “Please, just shut up. Bloody idiot.” You laugh a little and it hurts, but you can’t help the small release you get at seeing Alfred smile again. He positions himself next to you and slings his arm around your waist, carrying almost all of your weight against his side as you continue moving. You’ve caught your breath enough to be able to talk properly, and there is no denying the fact that Alfred’s support is relieving in the most uncanny sort of way. Your feet are barely touching the ground, you notice, as he retorts.

“Back to the names again, huh?” He chuckles, and you shake with the movement. You turn your eyes to look up at him, fluttering your eyelashes, positively drained. Your face is still flushed and clammy from the trek. “I guess I could get used to those. As long as you’re gonna be this damn adorable about it.” He is still chuckling under his breath, and you cannot help but feel a little bit indignant at the redness now pulsing in your ears and cheeks. You wonder to yourself if you’ll ever stop being effected by him so much as he plucks the key out of the pocket of his jeans. He pops it into the handle and twists the door open with a flourish, still holding you upright with his right arm. He hums a little to himself as he practically carries you through the door, setting you to sit gently on the edge of an unmade hotel bed. You observe the place from your seat, grateful for the soft give of the mattress springs. You see that Alfred has collected only a few belongings, and you vaguely wonder why he would be leaving anything in the room. You then realize that the small suitcase and laptop are all that he has. He was apparently ready to do this for a while, and it takes barely a minute for him to collect the last of his things. He slings the laptop bag over his shoulder and flicks the suitcase handle out in one graceful move. He pauses for a moment, looking at you from his stance in the middle of the room. He looks like an adventurer, hair mussed up and eyes ablaze with a fire for life. You smile at him and think that he would likely make a most impressive model.

“You do pack light, love,” you say to him, quirking an eyebrow in his direction. He smiles and shrugs a little, putting his free hand through his hair. You watch the shift of muscles in his arm as he plays with the sandy strands for a moment, and sneak a gaze at his hands. He has fantastic hands, you think. Tan and strong and sturdy, with a gentleness that you couldn’t quite understand, but one that you greatly appreciated. You are broken from your trance by the words that he speaks.

“Yeah, I guess I’ve just never really been a stuff kinda guy.” He leans up against the dresser behind him, letting go of the suitcase. Alfred talks with his hands, and that’s something you love about him. He makes little gestures with his fingers and spins his wrists and bounces his arms as he speaks. It is something that borderlines on mesmerizing to you. “I mean even when I had stuff I never really wanted it. And after a while it just got to be where I didn’t really care about things anymore, ya know? I would rather just have done things than owned things, I guess. Plus I didn’t real-” Midway through his mini-rant, you had gotten up off the bed and inched closer to him, grabbing his hands in yours. You cut him off, trying to remind him of the matter at hand.

“I love it when you speak,” you say, playing with his hands. “But I do believe that there are more pressing matters of business we could be attending to at the moment, love.” You try your best not to sound pushy, but you are absolutely wiped out. You only hope that Alfred can understand that much, as he searches your face. He squints and quirks his head for a moment before smiling again.

“How right you are, Art,” he gives you a rather unexpected, gentle kiss. When he pulls back he is looking at you with eyes that are as filled with hope as they are excitement. His hair is a mess as always and you can’t help but laugh at his general absurdity. “We’re actually gonna do this, aren’t we?” He asks suddenly. Your expression softens and you respond in a voice that is nearly a whisper.

“Yes, we absolutely are, my love.” You smile again, still as genuine as before but a little bit more hopeful and a little bit less hysterical. You were nervous earlier that day. You are not a shred apprehensive or anxious in any way, shape or form now. You are one hundred percent positive that this is right, and you are past the point of saying it isn’t. “Shall we go?” He grabs the handle on his suitcase again and repositions his arm around your waist, putting on the air of a gentleman as he ushers you out of the room.

“Indeed we shall.” His hand does not leave you as he sets his suitcase to the side and closes the door behind you. He keeps the key in his hand and lifts the luggage as you prepare to descend the dreaded staircase of pain. To your surprise, he only tightens his grip on your waist at the first step, and lifts you on one side of him as he takes the stairs down three at a time. You have to grab around his neck for dear life, as you shout expletives into his ear and he laughs at you. You reach the ground level unscathed, if a little flustered, and chew him out in the lobby for nearly giving you a heart attack. He hands the key back to the woman behind the counter, and you are still fuming as you trudge out into the cold night air.

The temperature hits you like walking into a massive freezer. The past week or so the humidity had kept the true ice at bay, and it was at least bearable enough to get home in. However tonight the air had a sharp pang to it that made your arms grow goosebumps in record time. You pull Alfred’s jacket tighter around yourself as you suppress a shiver. You are physically drained and freezing, so although you are still miffed at Alfred, you welcome his arm when it wraps around your middle, holding you close.

“Aw man, are you okay to walk home, Art?” He asks, concerned. You lean into his chest, struggling to keep your eyes from closing with the heavy temptation of sleep. You let out a low groan, your knees starting to give in from exhaustion.

“Honestly,” you yawn, unable to suppress the urge. “I don’t think I am. But I’ve got to try.” You grimace into his shirt, eyes closed, as you continue. “There’s no bloody way I’m going to call a taxi to take me three blocks.” You try to scoff at the thought, but are interrupted by another gaping yawn.

“Well that’s not necessary at all.” He lets go of you momentarily, causing you to nearly fall over completely. He squats down towards the ground and points a thumb at his back, looking over his shoulder to smile at you. “Hop on,” he says enthusiastically. You stand there for a moment, dumbfounded.

“Are you suggesting that you give me a piggy-back ride for three blocks to my house?” You ask incredulously, sleep not harboring your ability to inflect shock and disapproval into your tone. He looks at you with a genuine, wholehearted smile. 

“Yep!” He sits there in his squatting position, turning away from you again and waiting patiently for you to, as he so eloquently put, “hop on”. “I don’t know if you can make it that far ‘cuz clearly you’re really fucking tired, and I can’t carry you with one arm for three blocks, so,” he pats his back, still looking out over the hotel parking lot. You roll your eyes with as much attitude as you can muster, which for your state of coherence is surprisingly concentrated. You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his back. He grabs the back of your knees and makes sure you’re tucked securely under his arms. He is warm and he smells wonderful as you bury your face in his neck. He walks at a pretty lively pace, but keeps his steps smooth so as to not bounce you around on your little trek. Through your sleepy haze you recognize how thoroughly impressive it is that he can carry two bags of luggage and you on his back at a reasonable speed for three straight blocks. You have to admit that you found it a little bit of a turn on, and you feel your face turn red against the back of his neck. You find yourself looking up from him to the sky in an attempt to cool the flush from your cheeks. It is the clearest night in months, and you take that as a good omen to what you are doing.

You begin to feel your thoughts drift into the barrier between dreams and reality as Alfred walks. You find it a bit interesting that you cannot tell whether the best parts of this in-between consciousness are made up in your own head, figments of your imagination, or things that actually exist. You feel cotton rub against your face and smell cinnamon and sweat and you know that this, the best thing you recognize, is not a dream.

 

Tonight is the night that you discover that Arthur Kirkland snores. Really fucking loudly.

You can hear his breathing start to slow to little sighs as his arms and legs loosen around your torso. You have to bring him closer with one hand, and end up having to quite literally hold his back end up with your free hand. He is entirely unconscious on your back and you are completely and positively content with that. (This is only partially due to the fact that you have an excuse to have your hand on his backside.) He would absolutely not have made it those three blocks, even taking into account his stubborn nature. The bags under his eyes were getting deep enough to plant flowers in, and quite frankly he looked so tired that it gave the impression of one who had been hit by a bus. You felt more than a little bit guilty for this, although he was the one who initiated the outing. You figured that it was the least you could do to get him home, which you now realize will be your home as well.

You admit that you are highly anxious about moving in with Arthur. There is no doubt in your mind at this point that he is only letting you move in temporarily. You assume that he is just as desperate as you are not to be separated for the time being, which led to this brash decision in the first place. You worry that maybe this will be a negative thing, that spending so much time together will drive you both insane. When you tilt your head to look at him, however, you know that this will not be the case. He has his face dropped into your back and he is starting to snore. You can only see his bushy eyebrows and his hair mussed up with sleep over your shoulder. You let out a sigh. Even if it was wrong, and even if he didn’t think this through completely, you were both happy. He was happy, and quite frankly that was all you cared about.

When the house, _your house Al_ , you think, comes into sight, you pick up your pace to nearly a jog, careful not to bounce Arthur around too much. The cold air feels wonderful against the sides of your face, and the contrast of temperatures from him linked around you to the wind is exhilarating. You reach the porch and still he is snoring like a lawn mower into your ear. You laugh and it shakes the both of you. You hear his snore catch and him mumble a little, half conscious. You turn your head to the side to catch a glimpse of him.

“We’re home Art,” you whisper, trying to avoid anymore loud noises before he is fully conscious. He lets out a groan and slips down from your back. You set him down gently and steady him until he has found his footing. You turn around to look down at him rubbing his eye, a red mark on the side of his face where he fell asleep against you.

“I suppose we are,” he says, dropping his hand and looking up at you. His tired voice is in full effect and it sends a rush of warmth through you to your fingertips. He digs around in his pocket for a moment, clumsily pulling out a set of house keys. You step to the side and allow him to open the door, and he is starting to become a little bit more awake. He swings the door widely open and gestures his arm in a majestic manner towards it, bowing slightly. “Welcome home then, Sir Alfred F. Jones, bloody git.” He straightens up and looks at you, grinning wickedly. You grab hold of his arm with your free hand and begin to make your way through the door.

“Why thank you, my prince,” you glide through the door and into the small living space. You realize that it really is small, and it is cozy and looks exactly like Arthur. There is a futon and an old television set on a vintage table in the living room. You peek around the corner to a little kitchen, complete with a bright yellow tea kettle and dried flowers on the counter. “This truly is a fine palace,” you say, mocking a blueblooded tone.

“Thank you, I suppose.” He sighs a little and hums. “It isn’t much, but it’s home.” He tugs softly at your elbow, intending to pull you towards the little hallway in the back of the room. He lowers his tone to a near whisper and the combination of his already tired voice and the tone he sets in it now is overwhelming you. “Would you like to take the rounds?” Your face is flushed and he laughs at you as you follow him to the hallway. You know that you shouldn’t be so embarrassed, but the way he goes about things holds so many implications to you that you don’t know what to do with yourself. You don’t know where the boundaries are with him, and he’s so perfect, and it makes you really goddamn nervous. He pulls you to the bathroom, explaining that you can pick one side of the cupboard if you’d like to. You are grateful that he has thought through at least a little bit of this whole living together thing, because in all honesty you had no idea how it was going to work. He points to the second door in the hallway and tells you it’s the linen closet, which doesn’t surprise you. He guides you over to the last door, opening it with a gentle shove and ushering you inside. 

“This is my room.” He looks at you, a little unsure and a lot exhausted. “I am sorry to be an awful host but I don’t believe I will be able to stay awake much longer. So, my home is your home, as they say.” He drops on his bed and pops off his shoes before curling up to sleep, still fully clothed. Without a second thought you take off your shoes as well and set your luggage on the ground outside of his door. When you come back into the room his eyes are already closed, but you know he is not asleep quite yet. You almost decide against asking, but the way he is curled up with his hands set against the bedding and how utterly small he looks sways you to inquire. You walk up beside the bed and sit on it cross-legged, facing his tiny form. You see a green eye pop open and look up at you from his position on the mattress, curiosity sparked. You absentmindedly grab his hand, playing with his fingers in yours.

“Hey Art, I know it’s kind of forward I guess and I don’t mean anything weird by it but would you care if I maybe just, I mean can I-” he cuts you off mid-question with a surprisingly forceful grasp at the front of your shirt, pulling you close. Your eyes open up in shock as he reaches around you and you find yourself adjusting to better fit in his hold. His eyes are closed again as he curls close to your chest.

“Yes,” is all he says. You give a small smile and wrap your arms around him, warmth radiating through every inch of your being. You set your face in his hair and breathe in, closing your eyes. You whisper into his hair, afraid to break the moment.

“I love you,” you say. You cannot help it, because you know how completely and totally true it is. You have known this man for two weeks and you are absolutely in love with him. It is as obvious as ever with him curled up to you with his face in your neck. You hear the mumbled reply and feel his breath against your collarbone.

“I love you more.” He lets a small grin loose against your neck and you smile even wider into his hair. You were worried about this earlier, but now it seems such a silly thing to waste worry on at all. You savor the warmth between the two of you and the smell of his hair and the looseness of your jacket on him in your arms. You hear him let out the beginnings of sleep, breathing growing in volume to his snore. You let out a silent giggle into his hair and feel him relax into sleep, keeping his hand wrapped in the front of your shirt. You pull him closer and you love him.

This is the thought that you fall asleep to, and you sincerely hope that this becomes routine. He is perfect and you love him. He has freckles and he smells nice and you love him. He snores like a beast in a cave and you love him. His name is Arthur Kirkland, and you are entirely and completely in love with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so for those of you who have read this far (THANK YOU?? WHAT THE HECK YOU'RE THE BEST), this is as far as I've written. I'll probably add a couple other chapters and then one to wrap up at some point. It will probably become nsfw //v\\\ anyways, thank you for reading!! <33

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic posted on AO3;; i hope y'all like it! I originally wrote it as a gift for a friend in freshman year, so it's definitely a bit rough.  
> Thank you so much for reading! kudos if you dug it, yeah? :D x


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